


I'm willing to drown

by donutcats



Category: Life with Derek
Genre: F/M, hurt!derek aka my fave thing, lots of references and mentions to water for some reason, mentions and references to drowning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 04:18:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6455485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutcats/pseuds/donutcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek makes a list of the things he'll need to fix himself up. He manages to mentally cross Casey off that list at least three times. That has to be a record.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm willing to drown

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back with the dasey, because I'll always be trash for these stupid characters and this stupid show. This started out derek centric, and then just snowballed from there. I can't center anything around derek without mentioning his feelings for casey. It's kind of impossible.
> 
> College dasey will always be my favorite for whatever reasons, so if it's not clear, that's when this takes place btw.

The parking lot is mostly empty, save for the Prince parked near the back, and honestly Derek is grateful.

He thinks about getting up, about driving home and maybe laying in his bed or on the bathroom floor or maybe even the backyard. But then people would probably notice him, and he's not really in the mood to be noticed. Not now.

For a brief second, it hurts to breathe, and he thinks he can actually feel where his lungs must be catching along a rib. Something's fractured, it has to be if he's feeling this shitty. Maybe he should go home, risk someone wanting to poke and prod at him if it means he gets looked at.

Instead, he rolls over, pressing his cheek to the cool pavement, eyes focusing on the white parking stripe only a few inches in front of his face. Man, he's really hit rock bottom now, hasn't he?

He blames his mom, if he's being honest. He blames her for a lot, mostly because it's easy. If she had just come to his game, maybe he wouldn't be here right now. She promised him, too. She promised and he stupidly thought she'd keep this one. But he forgot who his mother is, and then he was reminded in the form of a quick and barely apologetic phone call five minutes before his game.

 _Five minutes_ , he was geared and hyped up and waiting, five fucking minutes, like she waited. Waited until barely the last minute to inform him that some shitty marine biology thing got in the way of his hockey game. It doesn't even matter that the whole point of her visiting from Spain was to spend time with her kids. Nope, ocean life will always come first.

He was pissed, annoyed and let down, but he was ready to brush it off. To tuck away the anger until after, like he's always done. Then he gets a text, right before he's about to shut off his phone and stuff it into his locker.

Casey, telling him that she won't be able to make it. It's not a surprise really, and he's not mad at her, because she did warn him that she had other plans and she'd try her best she really would, but it still hurts. Still feels like rubbing gravel into an open wound. (he absently rubs his raw cheek against the pavement of the parking lot.)

So he shoves his phone into his locker and storms out onto the ice. He tells himself he can't afford to get angry, he can't afford to let it get the better of him, not here not now.

Derek has never been good at listening, not even to himself.

Rolling over onto his back again, Derek presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees stars. He started a fight, in the rink. Some douche on the other team. Just because the ref broke it up didn't mean it was over.

Which brings him back to now, laying on his back in the sprawling parking lot of the stadium, bruised and bloody and wallowing in his own self pity.

Derek Venturi doesn't cry. Really, he doesn't. His eyes are just wet because he keeps digging his knuckles into his eyes until his vision turns from black to white.

He could get over his mom, really he could. He has before. He's _used_ to her just, leaving. Letting him down. It's become habit. What gets him, what honestly fucking gets him is the fact that _Casey_ wasn't there.

And maybe, if his mom had come, and Casey still texted, maybe he would have been ok. Maybe it wouldn't hurt so much. But, neither of them showed. Maybe there was this small part of him that was hoping Casey would be there, a small selfish part wanting her to come and make him forget about missing his mom.

She was always good at making him forget about things. Especially things that were hurting.

Another twenty minutes go by, just laying on the fucking ground with his fists against his face, and he's glad he made up some excuse to his family on why he might be late to the victory dinner.

Finally, _finally_ , he scrapes himself up, using the Prince as leverage, practically pulling himself into the driver's seat. An extra ten minutes are spent with his forehead pressed firmly to the steering wheel, one arm curled around his side.

Derek's mind is slow, filled with that groggy feeling you get after crying. He probably shouldn't be driving. He really doesn't care. He needs to get home. He doesn't want to call anyone.

When the Prince is parked in the driveway of his parent's home, he sits, breathing. Waiting to see if anyone will come into the garage, greeting him. No one comes, the door stays shut, and he finally turns the key, the engine fading out. Maybe they aren't home. Maybe they got sick of waiting and went to dinner without him. Maybe they think he flaked.

How can he blame them though, he is his mother's son after all. They have other things in common, why not the ability to fuck off when people least expect it?

It takes him awhile to make his way up to his old room, mostly because of the care he takes in being as silent as possible. Has he mentioned he's not in the mood to explain this to anyone?

No one's home, and now that he thinks about it, he didn't see the van. They probably did go out to dinner. He can't be mad, he'd do the same. Halfway up the stairs he stops, taking in the unnatural silence of the house. Taking the opportunity, he trudges back down, into the kitchen. Pulling out a rather large tupperware container, he fills it with as much ice as they own, and then he checks the freezer in the garage for any extra.

He's tired, sore, and in so much fucking pain. So, he does the one thing he thinks might help.

Finally, _finally_ , he's in the bathroom, emptying out a container and a bag of ice into the tub, letting the faucet run as he peels away his clothes. It sticks in some places, and he's pretty sure he's going to have to wipe up the bathroom floor when he feels less like shit. He wouldn't want to make Nora do it.

It stings at first, but then he just feels numb. It feels very apropos. (Casey would be proud that he remembered such a complicated word) He's still in the bath when he hears the front door open, when he hears feet pounding around downstairs and voices floating under the bathroom door.

He swears he hears Casey, and that just makes him sink deeper into the water, submerging the bottom half of his face and closing his eyes, making a list of the things he'll need to fix himself up. He manages to mentally cross Casey off that list at least three times. That has to be a record.

 

===

 

He's laying on Casey's bed by the time she finally makes her way upstairs, and if he was expecting any sort of reaction from her, he's a little let down. She just arches an eyebrow and crosses the room to the desk, rifling around until she finds a pen. Then, she's just looking at him, hip leaning against the edge.

Derek has a perfectly good reason for being in her room, you see. Really, he does. And contrary to popular belief, it's not because he completely fucking hates himself. Well, not entirely. It's only most of the reason, if he's being honest.

No but, the other part of the reason is because, there's this problem. The problem is in the form of him hauling himself out of the ice cold bath tub, most of the ice cubes long melted, and making his way to his old room only to remember that it was changed into an office. He stood there, hair still dripping, his dirty clothes balled up in his arms, staring at what used to be his sanctuary, before sighing. Derek grabbed his duffle bag from where he threw it next to his dad's desk and found himself in Casey's old room. Now turned generic but tasteful guest room.

"Your shirt is inside out," Casey states, pen twirling in her fingers. Derek looks at himself, pinches the front of his tshirt in between his fingers and really looks at it. He makes a noise of acknowledgement, which makes Casey roll her eyes. "Why do you look like shit?"

"My mom didn't come to my game," Derek replies, his voice sounding lame even to his own ears. What an excuse. _Yeah, I look like hamburger meat because I was sad._

"Derek." There she is, using her lecturing voice. Derek can already imagine the things she'll say to him, things about how, as terrible as it is he can't rely on his mother. Because that's what he'll want to hear. He'll want to hear that his mother is just terrible, that it's all on her and it has nothing to do with him. Nothing to do with anything he could have done to make her show up.

They're great at telling the other what they want to hear when it comes to their other parent. She always talks shit about Abbey. Just like he always tells her that Dennis is just busy, he doesn't mean to ignore her. Because that's what she wants to hear, even though they both know it's a crock of shit.

"You can't just get into a _fight_ because your mother didn't show. If you got into a fight every time she broke a promise-"

"You didn't come, either." If his voice was lame before, now he just wants to shove it into a fucking locker and call it a nerd. He's still picking at the visible hem of his tshirt, laying on his side and refusing to look at her. God, someone should shove _him_ in a fucking locker. He feels too vulnerable, too messy and soft.

The mattress dips, and when he looks up Casey is sitting at the edge, the ends of her ponytail brushing her shoulder. "You can't get into fights because I didn't show up." Her voice is quieter, matching the weird soft feeling in his chest. "I was busy. Besides, you hardly ever want me at your games." Casey tries to lighten her voice, along with the mood.

"I know. But," Derek makes another noise, this one has an edge to it, guttural and frustrated. "I don't like feeling like _this_." The words sound like they're being pulled from him, like teeth.

"Like what?"

"Like I have, _feelings_. Messy, terrible feelings that make me want to talk in metaphors and shit. I hate it. I hate feeling," he makes a face, " _hurt_. I hate feeling like she can hurt me, you know? I thought I was over her being able to hurt me the minute she gave up on trying to get me to go back with her to Spain." Derek gives up on trying to forcibly pull the hem out of his shirt, his hand thudding against the navy and white comforter. "I hate feeling like you buffer the hurt."

He's still not looking at her, still refuses, because if he's going to say this shit, if he's going to just spill all this out practically involuntarily, he at _least_ doesn't need to look at her pitying, crystal blue eyes that make him feel like he's fucking drowning. It startles him when the mattress dips even more, when her face falls into view, as she places her head on the other half of the pillow.

Derek remembers, when he was 8, when it was just him and Ed and his parents, and they decided to take a trip to the beach because it was a nice summer day. He remembers wanting to jump off the pier, into the blue blue water, but his dad told him he couldn't, told him it was too deep. 

Derek's never been good at listening. He remembers his mom being preoccupied with inflating Edwin's floaties, and his dad walking back to the car to grab something.

He jumped.

That was the first moment Derek remembers being scared. Of being terrified. Terrified because his feet couldn't find the bottom, because his hands couldn't find the top. Everything was so blue, so suffocating.

He never thought he'd feel that terrified again. 11 years later, and he still remembers it perfectly, remembers the water and his chest feeling like it was going to burst. Looking into Casey's eyes now, the memory feels like a punch to the face. Except this time, he doubts his dad will be there to save him.

Casey's hand reaches out, slowly, her fingers ghosting over the bruises along his jaw, his cheek, the one wrapping up around his temple, before settling gently over his eyebrow. Derek holds his breath, because he's not sure what to expect. Maybe that same feeling of his chest wanting to rip itself open.

"You need a bandaid," comes her quiet voice, eyes flicking away from his to look at her fingers, smoothing back the skin just above his eye. He leans into her touch, almost without thinking, and maybe he does feel like he's suffocating, and maybe he is terrified. And maybe he doesn't need saving this time.

"You gonna kiss it better?" There's a hitch in his voice, but he tries to hide it with a smirk. Casey frowns, and for a minute he thinks he fucked up. _He fucked it all up_. But then her fingers are moving down, skipping past the bruises, resting along the curve of his bottom lip.

Oh, right. He forgot that it was split. Must have opened back up when he tried to use his, admittedly shitty, charm. It was worth a shot, really. He couldn't stop himself. He never really can stop himself. "See something you like?"

"No," Casey's voice is still quiet, she's still frowning, and Derek really needs to stop pushing his luck. Maybe he can rent a wheel barrow for his luck instead. His arms are kind of getting tired. He thought he fucked up before but now he's like, pretty positive, like maybe 99.9%. "I don't like seeing you all bloody."

This girl and her need for dramatic pausing is going to give him a fucking heart attack one of these days he _swears to god_.

She's shifting away, and before he can have _another_ freak out, she's grabbing his hand. "Let's go fix you up. You look like you need it."

"You don't know the half of it."

Then she's smiling, leading him to the bathroom and pulling out the first aid kit stashed away in the medicine cabinet. Derek sits, quietly, watching her pull out the things she thinks she's going to need, and he remembers when he was 8 and he almost drowned, he remembers the first real breath he took afterwards, with nothing obstructing his lungs.

The feeling of Casey's hand on his face, as she spreads iodine on the smattering of bruises, reminds him of that moment, captured crystal clear in his memory.

 


End file.
